


if you ever come at me i'll hurt you

by youcouldmakealife



Series: throw up your fists, throw out your wits [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t think about it. </p><p>The list of things he doesn’t think about is probably longer, by now, than the things he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you ever come at me i'll hurt you

**Author's Note:**

> Not really sure I'm happy with this part, but if I stare at it any more I may explode, so. Here's the moment of truth, guys. 
> 
> Title's from Sunset Rubdown's "The Empty Threats of Little Lord".
> 
> I don't tend to warn for character's viewpoints being different than my own, but Luke's misogyny and slut-shaming is so egregious in this part that I have to wave my arms and go "character opinion only!" Additionally, I should warn for verbal abuse. Also violence, but I think you guys are used to that by now.

Ben doesn’t answer Luke’s texts for the next couple days. Not that Luke sends many, because he’s pissed as hell, but he sends a couple, and they go unresponded to. Ben is glued to his phone, as a rule, so that’s not accidental. 

He doesn’t think about it. 

The list of things he doesn’t think about is probably longer, by now, than the things he can.

He does the stupid thing and goes out to pick up in Calgary, because there’s no one to tell him not to. He knows he’s been recognized, there are too many glances than could be explained by the fact that his face is still a little fucked up, and it all kind of works against him, everyone slow to approach him until some kid full of bravado does. He’s probably barely eighteen, fresh faced and still pretty with youth, and his fingers slip along the tile when Luke’s sucking him off, because there’s nothing to hold on to. He’s not great at returning the favour, too sloppy, but then, skill isn’t really important once Luke’s got a hand in his hair, holding him still while he fucks his mouth.

Afterwards the kid looks a little dazed, lips red and eyes on Luke like he kind of wants to ask for an autograph. Luke heads out after that, though, he got what he needed and staying out any longer in the city he plays for is an unnecessary risk if he’s not going to get his rocks off. 

He goes out in Vancouver too, also stupid, somewhere he’s liable to be recognized, and by a rival’s fan, to boot, but in the pulse beat of the club, he blends in with everyone else, the cuts and scrapes faded enough that no one will notice them unless they’re looking him right in the eye. He goes after a gruff guy around his size, and there’s tears pricking in Luke’s eyes when his cock’s pushing into Luke’s throat, but it’s the good kind of burn.

He’s waiting for the news to break, for someone to snap a picture, either in the club, or, hell, while Luke’s got his mouth around their cock, figures it becomes more and more likely every time he goes out (though in LA they probably just thought he was rough trade), but nothing’s leaked, and he should be grateful. He is grateful, he thinks.

In Dallas he lets a guy fuck him out back behind the club, and his palms get scraped by the brick, he can feel the burn in his ass days after, because the prep was pathetic, but at least Sidorchuk’s no longer the only person he’s ever let fuck him. 

He doesn’t remember the guy’s name. He likes it best that way.

*

Luke ends up finding out from Waters. They have a biology project together, and are trying to work out the logistics through instant messaging. Luke prefers it this way because he actually knows what the fuck Waters is saying when it’s written out in actually understandable English. His accent’s slipped a bit, and they’ve all gotten used to him, but it’s still easier this way.

They’ve figured out who’s covering what, and then Waters clearly considers their planning over, sending, _why didnt you tell me about sidorchuk?_.

Luke goes cold all over, even though he knows it can’t be what he’s thinking about, because Waters wouldn’t have waited until homework was figured out to ask that. _what do u mean?_ , he sends back, his heart pounding in his chest, even though he knows he hasn’t been caught, they haven’t been caught, they’re careful. 

_that he got called up. ahl thats so cool_ , Waters sends, and Luke has to stare at it for a minute before it starts to make sense. And then he’s getting dressed, jerkily, sweats that are puddled on the floor, that day’s t-shirt, and going downstairs.

“It’s past eleven--” Mrs. MacArthur’s saying when Luke’s shoving his feet into his boots and pulling on his coat, but Luke’s already slamming out of the door.

He hadn’t thought about this. The Penguins have had terrible luck all season, injury after injury, and Luke hadn’t done the math, hadn’t realised that if the Penguins keep calling kids up, Wilkes-Barre is going to have their own holes to plug. Nikita’s been left to mature, but nineteen’s more than mature enough. He hadn’t thought. He didn’t _think._

He gets to Nikita’s place in a dead run, banging on his door while he’s trying to catch his breath. He realises what a stupid thing that is to do when Nikita’s billet mother opens it, looking furious, but it’s too late now.

“Sorry,” he manages, panting. “Just. Is Nikita still here?”

Her face softens, just a little, and she lets him in. He kicks his boots off, goes upstairs by rote, opens Nikita’s door to find a packed up room, a suitcase on the floor, Nikita clearly having been asleep, bleary eyed, and then squinting when Luke turns the light on. 

Luke swallows. “When do you leave?” he asks.

“Tomorrow morning,” Nikita says, voice scratchy, sitting up in bed. “What are you doing here?”

“And you just weren’t going to tell me?” Luke asks, his voice cracking. He’d seen Nikita earlier today, he’d come over after school and Luke had sucked his cock, Nikita fucking his mouth, and then jerked off for him, a show, flushed red all over, even though they’ve done fucking everything, because Nikita was watching him so intently. He had to have known by then. God, there’s no way he didn’t know. 

“Why?” Nikita asks, like it’s simple, and Luke doesn’t even know how to begin answering that, just goes with his gut and the truth.

“I love you,” he says, and it sounds so lame coming out of his mouth, but he means it, he thinks he’s meant it for awhile, and he was too chickenshit to risk fucking things up, but he needs Nikita to know. 

Nikita laughs, and Luke’s stomach drops. 

“You love me,” he parrots. He has this sneering expression on his face that Luke’s only ever seen when Nikita’s mocking something he thinks is practically below derision. An easy, obvious target. He saves it for people like Nowell and country music. He’s never directed it at Luke before, sometimes he laughs a little meanly but it’s never like this, like Luke’s pathetic. 

“Yes,” Luke says, bites down on his lip, hard, before it starts quivering and Nikita mocks him for being a crybaby on top of that. He’d imagined this, telling him, a couple times, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think that Nikita would say it back, but he hadn’t imagined this, he doesn’t think he could have imagined Nikita laughing in his face. 

“Your little crush is cute at first,” Nikita says, getting out of bed, stands in front of Luke, radiating warmth, a half-clothed boy that Luke’s completely memorized, and doesn’t recognise at all. “Now is pathetic.”

Luke bites down until he tastes blood. 

“Why then?” he asks finally, choked. “Why fuck me then, Niki? Why just me?”

“Just you?” Nikita asks. “You think just you?” He reaches out, gets Luke’s chin in his hand, meets his eyes. “There were girls, but no one as easy as you. No one loves it like you. My slut. You do anything for me.”

Luke feels like he’s burning up inside, and there’s no thought to what he does next, which is to bite down on Nikita’s fingers, hard, until he lets go with a yelp that Luke would find satisfying, if he could find satisfaction in anything right now.

Nikita clutches his injured fingers in his other hand, holds them to his chest. “I hurt your feelings?” he sneers, and Luke can’t. There’s fight and there’s flight, and more than anything he wants to run right now, to never see that expression on Nikita’s face again, but instead he lashes out, gets a sloppy punch to Nikita’s cheek that probably hurts Luke’s hand more than his face, another landing against his bicep, before Nikita’s grabbing him, wrestling him down until Luke’s flat on his back on the floor and Nikita’s got a knee in his gut, knocking the air out of him. It’s so close to what they usually do, but it isn’t that at all, it’s been perverted beyond recognition. 

“Only fight when you can win,” Nikita says, low, nothing amused in him anymore, just fury that Luke’s never seen, the closest approximation the way Nikita will stare down an opposing team’s enforcer, but even that has a hint of play in it. This is cold. This leaves Luke cold. 

“Fuck you,” Luke pants, and he’s got tears trickling out of the corner of his eyes, can’t help it anymore. “Fuck you, let me _go_.”

“I am happy to,” Nikita says, stands, looking like nothing’s happened, unruffled, while Luke can’t stop crying. “Get out.”

“I hate you,” Luke chokes out, when he’s standing, still winded. “I fucking hate you.” It’s as true as anything else he’s said tonight. 

Nikita doesn’t say anything at all. 

Luke runs down the stairs, past Nikita’s billet mother, shoving his feet into his boots and slamming the front door behind him, hopes it wakes the entire fucking neighbourhood. He manages to make it a block away before he doubles over, clutching his stomach and sobbing until he can’t breathe. 

*

He doesn’t get caught, and he doesn’t get caught, and he doesn’t get caught. Clearly he’d spent too much time and energy being careful all these years, because people are fucking stupid. Teammates are amused with edited accounts (edited to contain bonus tits, mostly), management either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care if it doesn’t affect his play. Luke feels more and more unsatisfied with every fuck that he gets away with. 

It’s not even a gay bar that gets him in shit, it’s not even a _guy_. They’re in Saskatoon, which is emphatically not a city you go to if you want to get laid, the two pitiful excuses for gay bars not even worth entering. A good chunk of the guys go out for drinks and really junky food at this bar that reminds Luke of a lot of the Calgary cowboy bars, but hilariously earnest, and Luke feels like he’s in some honky tonk nightmare. He appreciates a good country band, but this place is a stereotype. There’s a fucking bale of hay. There’s _more than one_ bale of hay.

Some of the guys get roped out onto the dance floor, happy to make fools of themselves, and Luke heads to the bar, gets some bottom shelf whisky to throw back, a beer to chase. A girl comes up to him at the bar, and even if Luke wasn’t gay she wouldn’t be his type, he thinks if he got a wet washcloth he could wipe her actual face off, the make-up’s caked on so thick, and her hair is a burnt platinum, brittle like straw. 

“Buy me a drink?” she asks, and Luke stares at her kind of incredulously, but then rolls his eyes and signals to the bartender. The drinks are cheap, he could afford it even if they weren’t, and there, that’s his good deed for the day. 

She gets hard liquor, which is at least something he can appreciate, and then smiles, sort of come-hither, Luke guesses. At least he figures that’s the intent. “Heard you boys are hockey players,” she says, and then it’s the fucking typical, Luke could recite with her, every guy on his team could, every guy in the league, probably. Isn’t that _dangerous_? You’re all so _tough_. You must be so _brave_. Women treat them more like soldiers than athletes, and the violence gets them hot. 

He sticks around for a bit, just because it’s close to the bartender, the cabs are limited, and the guys don’t show any sign of being done. Casterley’s dancing with a girl that’s genuinely pretty in a girl next door kind of way. Looks just like his fucking wife. Luke figures if you cheat, you should at least be shooting for variety, not your wife without the baby weight. 

Shauna--he thinks that’s her name at least, or Shania, or something, he doesn’t care that much, is getting closer by the minute, and Luke figures he’ll finish his beer and grab someone to split the fair before she starts rubbing up against him, since that’s the way this seems to be going. He’s about to ask for the cheque when some guy stands in his space, over Luke’s shoulder, close enough to get Luke’s hackles up. Luke gets a look at him from his peripheral; he’s gone to seed, probably mid-to-late thirties, with a soft belly, but Luke knows a shit-stirrer when he sees one, and he could peg a fighter in a second. This guy’s both. 

“Shannon,” the guy says. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Oh, even better, a girl flirting with him to make her boyfriend jealous. Luke leans forward to signal for another drink, a shot for the road, because this is just a fucking capper to his night, isn’t it. 

“He’s a hockey player,” Shannon says, sounds triumphant. “NHL.”

“Are you trying to fuck my girl?” the guy asks Luke, voice rough, all attempted intimidation, and Luke wants to laugh in his face.

He does, in the end, he laughs right at him, and then he says, “What, her? I don’t want diseases.”

“What did you say?” the guy says, and because Luke just doesn’t give a fuck anymore, he repeats it, nice and slow so there’s no doubt in what he’s saying.

Luke doesn’t expect the first punch, which says something about how much he’s had to drink, because he doesn’t get himself in the right position, doesn’t take it well, gets spun by the shirt collar and then decked, a good blow, one that splits his lip against his teeth, and then another on the hinge of his jaw, but if the guy wanted to fuck with anyone in the bar he picked the wrong person, and it’s less than a minute before Luke has him on his back on the sticky floor, bright red blood trickling from his nose. Looks like he’s going to fucking cry. Luke bets he’s never picked a fight with someone he couldn’t beat handily in his entire life. 

He gets arms around him from behind when he’s gearing up to take a parting shot, and he doesn’t fight against them because if he breaks a teammate’s nose no one’s going to be happy. He gets up, shakes the grip off easily, which pretty much confirms the teammate assumption, because he’s pretty sure they all know that if he wants to fight, there isn’t anything that’s going to stop him, including them. Best not to try.

“Piece of advice, buddy,” he says to the man while he’s getting onto his elbows, still looking a second away from tears, the fucking pussy. “Only fight when you can win.”

It’s only when he’s back in his hotel room, examining his face with a washcloth full of ice pressed against his jaw, that he remembers why that line sounded familiar when it was leaving his mouth, why someone prone in tears on the ground filled him with such derision. 

His mouth stings sharp when he’s vomiting blood and booze and bile into the sink. Stomach turns until there’s nothing left in him, until he’s dry heaving, tears in his eyes. He wipes them away, runs cold water until it’s all going down the drain.

When he looks in the mirror he doesn’t even know who he sees anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
